She was edging towards the door.
“I—I spoke rather hastily,” she half apologized.
“So did I.” He smiled. “Often times we most easily tell the truth that way.”
She vanished. Barnes returned to his letter.
“So you see,” he wrote, “I have my hands full. I will write from time to time, but I’m so uncertain in my movements that I can give no address. You may always know that I am busy and in good spirits.
Your son, Dick.”
The second letter was more easily accomplished.
“Dear Father,—I’m head over heels in work and know that you are the same. I trust your work is counting for as much as mine. Hoping this will find you in your usual good health, I beg to remain,
Your prodigal son,
Richard.”
As he scrawled the addresses, he heard the tuning of instruments in the sitting-room. He hastily sealed the envelopes and hurried out. The sun was just setting. The old brick house looked very mellow.